Sheets
by faberino
Summary: Lord knows I don't want to compete, but I still sleep in the very sheets he's been in.


**Inspired by Damien Jurado's song Sheets.**

Sam pushes her hair out of her face, meeting her reflection's puffy-eyed gaze in the bathroom mirror. She doesn't look upset, only so very, very tired.

It had happened only moments ago, and it was very brief. But sometimes tiny words can fold over on themselves, echoing in the space between your ears. A miniscule thing, really – only a name. But Carlos sleeps on, oblivious to this monumental miniature beating frantically within Sammy Droke's head.

She glances out of the bathroom, at the bed where her boyfriend sprawls. The sheets are tangled around his thighs. Carlos lies on his back, asleep and gloriously naked. His hair is pressed flat on one side of his head; the other side sticks out at rebellious angles. The curl of his mouth makes something pinch almost unpleasantly at the bottom of Sam's stomach.

He stirs, rolling over onto his stomach. Wiping at her mouth, she remembers the way his dick had felt in her mouth only a short while ago. Heavy, salty, familiar.

But nothing seems familiar anymore.

Wrinkling her nose at a spot that's popped up on her forehead, she squeezes a dollop of toothpaste onto her toothbrush. It's not like she can march in there, shake his shoulder, and ask him straight out. His eyes would widen, sleepiness giving way to alarm (maybe embarrassment, even) and then a soft, lingering touch on the swell of her breast; _I'll make it up to you, I'm sorry_.

His eyes were hooded, watching her wrap her lips around his cock, long eyelashes fluttering when she did something just _so_ with her tongue. They hadn't seen each other, hadn't touched each other this way, in what feels like a million days, and he came down her throat with a pained grimace. He wasn't really awake, and he dragged a hand through her hair, contentment nestled in the corners of his expressive mouth.

She spits the toothpaste into the sink, the sound of its splattering echoing in the bathroom around her. Maybe it was a mistake, some awkward thing that doesn't mean anything. You get used to being around a certain group of people and out comes their name when your girlfriend has still got her lips wrapped around your dick. Sam narrows her eyes at her reflection. That's fucking stupid and you know it, she thinks. _Stupid_.

There is more room in a person's heart than you'd think, so why is it so surprising to find yourself among company there? And Carlos's heart is bigger than most; it has to be, to fit all the smiles and letters of his fans inside.

Carlos sleeps on, snoring quietly now. Sam wishes she could pretend she'd never heard Logan's name, with bitter come on her tongue, Carlos's thumb swiping gently across her cheekbone.

She remembers the look Kendall had given her in Vancouver, when he picked her up from the airport. No Carlos? she asked, looking around for his million-watt smile.

Kendall's green eyes met hers for the shortest of moments, pupils small. No, sorry, was all he had to say. There had been a fine tremor to his hands as he'd turned on the radio, and she wondered why his apology seemed so stilted, so unfinished. Kendall was a good actor, but he had always been the worst liar.

It's hard to say sorry for things you can't control_. Sorry your boyfriend isn't here for you, sorry he's fucking around with his best friend, sorry he's not in love_ –

Shutting off the light in the bathroom and padding softly to the bed, Sammy thinks that maybe Kendall wouldn't have told her anything about love because he knew too well the strange and painful things love does to a person. His eyes have always wandered too quickly over girls; have always gone back to a smirking face beneath perfectly gelled hair and Ray Ban sunglasses to ward off the Texan summer sun.

The bed dips beneath her weight. Everyone's a little gay, she thinks, reaching out to push the hair back from Carlos's face. His mouth quirks up in a sweet smile, and that thing pinches at her stomach again.

Maybe Logan has even been in this bed before, seen that same smile Carlos always gives her after sex, when his ribs glisten with sweat. It sickens her, because that smile is for _her_ and her alone, god_ damn_ it, and though her hands curl into fists in the sheets, she still pushes close to Carlos's warm body.

His skin feels like a furnace against her cold fingers and toes, and when he hums, pressing his nose into her hair, she thinks maybe she could forget what Logan's name sounds like as a hushed, reverent gasp.

_I love you,_ he murmurs. She feels the rumbled truth of his words through his chest. But it still feels like a trap, one that she doesn't have the energy to escape. It is so warm in his arms.


End file.
